Cold
by treeson
Summary: Fourth in the Vanilla Verse series. Before forgetting you have to ignore the signs.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. I do not seek to make profit off this work. Harry Potter and its characters belong to JKR and I am happy for her to have that title. I do not own Supernatural or its characters, Kripke does.

**Author Note**: Fourth in the Vanilla Verse. Comes after _Hermione, An Abridged History_ and _Being Switzerland_. This will make very little sense if you don't read those first. Thanks. XOXO

* * *

"You will _never_guess who tried to kill me today," Gabriel pronounced.

"Please don't put popcorn you're saving for later under the cushions," she said. "John Winchester?"

"Close, but no piñata."

"Yes, you wouldn't be here if that were the case. Hm. Dean and – and Sam?" Hermione asked, her voice rising with disbelief. "But Sam's supposed to be"—she glanced at the calendar—"in university still. Law needs—"

"You're making a fuss over Sam not being in some cap and gown when he _tried to kill me today._"

Hermione turned back in her seat and took a handkerchief to her quill since she'd let the ink on it dry halfway. "I suppose I don't want to know the reason behind why they felt the need to hunt you," she said stiffly.

"They just hate everything prettier than them," he said. "Ho-ho! I've been looking for this sand dollar. Fifty cents! Oh, chocolate frog. Forgot I put that there."

"I remember Dean and Sam were quite good looking," Hermione said. She re-dipped her quill, put it to her weekly letter to Harry. "I don't think they would be so conscious of their looks to commit homicide on those prettier than them."

"Dusty, but good." A popcorn hit the back of her head. "Come give me a backrub. A naked, oily backrub. I need one after my day."

"I'm certain you had loads of fun making them chase their own arses," Hermione told him. "You haven't said whether they recognized you."

"After all the times I let you go out after curfew with them, and the beers I bought them, and that time I took Dean to the clinic."

"I didn't have a curfew," Hermione said.

The popcorn stopped crunching. "Really?" he said, the word muffled. "Who fid I gife that bach-alley aborthon to, fhen?"

"You never _bought_beer, either."

"You should have seen how betrayed their little faces were." His voice raised to a falsetto. "'What about Hermione?' 'Was she just a trick, too?' And, my favourite, 'That wasn't _you_ my brother was crushing on, was it?' Little brats. As_ if_ I had enough talent to pull… you off. Though I don't mind _getting_you off."

"Remember that time I was fast enough to curse you?" Hermione sighed at the memory. "That was a good day."

She rubbed the chill off her elbows—Sam and Dean. Hunters. Not that she ever doubted Dean wouldn't follow his father's footsteps—he'd been helping his father then, too—but Sam surprised her. She had been certain his dream to go to university was more a ten-year plan than a dream at all. And they had found Gabriel. Just one degree away from her.

She cleared the cobwebs from her memory. "What did you tell them?" she asked. Something in her chest beat so hard on her ribcage she was afraid it would burst out. She kept writing, however. She didn't want Gabriel to notice anything amiss. Besides, she remembered how much she hated being Switzerland, after. How she'd let her morals slip so far. How she knew Sam would have hated her if he knew—the few hints she gave, the little shows of power, he just ignored or got angry. How he would have hated her even more if she knew how many lies she told.

"Eh, told them that was true. Or true enough. They don't need their own importance puffing their little chests out. Anyway. I got some feisty twins and a silk bed waiting. You're invited." She could hear his eyebrow waggling, she was so versed in Gabriel.

"Can't," she said. "Won't. I don't share."

He sighed as he stood up, as if his age—all thousands of years—were catching up. "I'd share them with you." He ignored the fact that she wasn't talking about the twins. He dropped a piece of paper in front of her. "There's his email, write him a limerick," he said in a put upon voice.

She brushed it off her letter. "Thanks. I'll try to get to it."

He flicked her on the ear and left with a toodle-loo.

No, her present was enough. She didn't need to let the past back in even if it tried to slip under the crack her door.

Besides, what could she say to Sam? Sorry Gabriel made me be your friend but I liked you anyway?

She stuffed the address next to the popcorn.

_fin._


End file.
